


Sleepwalking

by Nanashi Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Amnesia, Love, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-07
Updated: 2004-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Nanashi%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trowa comes shivering to Quatre every night, and every morning he's gone; and Quatre never feels him slip away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepwalking

Quatre comes awake when cool air sluices over his skin; comes awake, startled because he _wasn't_ startled, because someone got this close to him without triggering any internal alarms. Someone has exposed him, pulled back the covers, someone is climbing into bed with him—the mattress dips beneath Quatre with the extra weight and his body sinks gently with it, he rolls onto his side and says, sleep-slurred but certain, "Trowa?"

Trowa presses back against him. His skin is warm but he's shivering; even when Quatre pulls the blankets up over them, Trowa continues to shiver. Quatre says his name again and Trowa only shivers.

Quatre tucks himself behind Trowa, slips an arm around him. Trowa is solid and heavy against Quatre, his breathing is rhythmic, just frayed at the edges; his body sighs in Quatre's arms and Quatre holds him as the shivering quiets... holds him as Trowa slides deeper into slumber; Quatre holds him, and falls back into sleep himself...

 

Quatre wakes alone in the morning. He touches the sheets beside him, rolls into the warm impression and lies there himself awhile.

 

There's no remembrance anywhere in Trowa that day, not in his eyes or in his voice or words, his demeanor, not in his entire self. He knows Quatre as the boy who came for him at the circus, of course: "Hello, Quatre."

Quatre doesn't know if he should say anything about it. Doesn't know what to say.

"Hello, Trowa," he says.

Trowa smiles without recognition.

 

That night, Quatre doesn't say his name. Doesn't say anything. They never say anything. Trowa comes shivering to Quatre every night, and every morning he's gone; and Quatre never feels him slip away.

 

Quatre feels Trowa shift. He doesn't try to keep Trowa with him but he wants to see Trowa leave for once, so he lets go and opens his eyes.

Trowa shifts again: turns to face him, blinks and smiles sleepily. "We've done this before, Quatre, haven't we?" 

It sounds strange. People don't casually use each other's names in conversation. It sounds strange from Trowa's lips, the formality of his full first name.

Quatre nods. "You've been sleepwalking for a while now."

Trowa props up on an elbow to look at him; Quatre's gaze follows him, not shifting himself. Trowa's looking at him, and something flickers, the flicker is swallowed into shadow. Quatre keeps looking but he can't see even a trace of the flicker. 

"I haven't been sleepwalking," Trowa says.

Quatre blinks at him. "You haven't?"

Trowa smiles and shakes his head, affirming the negative. Quatre doesn't know what to say now, which question to ask.

"This is the only place I can sleep," Trowa says. "I've been having nightmares, this one nightmare." He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing the flop of bangs back from his face. "I was having it back on L3 too but it got worse when I came out here with you." It's Quatre's turn to flicker but Trowa's looking inside himself, doesn't see. "Not worse," he corrects himself, "but I've been remembering it here. It's always the same: I'm. I don't know. Asleep, maybe. I can't tell, in the dream, if I'm awake or asleep or." He swallows, then goes on: "Everything is dark and cold, and, empty. And real..." He drifts off. Shivers, and Quatre reaches for him before he thinks whether he should. 

Trowa slides down, rests his head on the pillow with Quatre's, face to face, close. "This is the only place I can sleep," he says, quietly, quieted. He doesn't say why and Quatre doesn't ask. His thumb strokes softly along Trowa's spine.

Then Trowa smiles again, a soft laugh slips out of his smile. "So I guess you weren't that far off, in a weird way. That's not what I meant, though." He props up again, rests his cheek on his folded hand. "When I said we've done this, I meant before." Quatre feels the inaudible sigh in the rise and fall beneath his hand. "Before I lost my memory. We did, didn't we, Quatre?"

There it is again, that strangeness. Quatre searches Trowa's eyes for the familiar, for anything, for another flicker of anything... 

Trowa's gaze is steady, his eyes are expectant, and Quatre remembers that there's a question: "Yes," he says, "we've done this before." Trowa's smile deepens, spreads up into his eyes. Quatre wants to touch Trowa more; he watches his fingers comb Trowa's hair over one eye. "We used to, yes," he amends, bringing his hand back to himself. And there's more but the words are heavy on his tongue and he swallows them; feels them thickening in his throat and he just looks at Trowa...

And Trowa looks at him. And then Trowa tilts and pushes the hair out of his face, tilts and bends and Quatre knows what's coming and he closes his eyes, and Trowa kisses him. His lips are soft on Quatre's; he parts them but doesn't offer his tongue; opens, and accepts Quatre's.

"We've done this before, too, haven't we?"

Quatre can only nod. Opens his mouth, and kisses Trowa some more.

 

"We've done this before, Quatre, haven't we?" Trowa says one night when his fingers wrap around Quatre's cock... "We've done this before, Quatre, haven't we?" Trowa says, licking Quatre's come from his hand... Kissing his come from the corner of Quatre's mouth one morning: "We've done this before, haven't we, Quatre?"

 

Quatre awakens to Trowa's warmth beside him, rolls onto his side and tucks himself snug behind Trowa. The inadvertent brush of his morning hard-on against Trowa's backside sends a tremor through him and he starts to shift his hips back—but Trowa moves with him, presses himself back against Quatre and Quatre's cock. Quatre's arm is around Trowa and Trowa takes his hand, brings it to his own cock, starts stroking himself with their entwined fingers. Quatre kisses Trowa, nuzzles behind Trowa's ear with his mouth as his fingers slip from Trowa's, go down to nuzzle Trowa's balls. Trowa arches and presses back, undulates in Quatre's arms, grinding against him. 

Quatre kisses with his fingers the lips his mouth can't reach, brushes over them, traces them until Trowa's tongue licks out to suck them inside in turn. Quatre's other fingers splay along Trowa's jaw, turning his face to be kissed as Quatre's wet fingers reach down, between Trowa's legs, rub tiny slick circles against his perineum and Quatre keeps kissing him as he slides one fingertip back to press against Trowa's hole. 

Trowa shivers; shivers again when Quatre takes his hand away. Quatre has to let go but doesn't have to get up for the lube, it's only a stretch and a reach to the nightstand. He nudges Trowa onto his front as he slicks up his hand; soothes and eases and pushes a finger inside, stroking and coating and feeling all of Trowa's shivery vibrations inside; and stretching him, slicking and stretching him and Trowa's opening up; Quatre keeps caressing Trowa open as he slicks himself up. 

When he's ready, he coaxes Trowa up onto his knees. One hand on Trowa's hip, the other wrapped around his bloodheavy cock, Quatre kneels up between Trowa's legs. Slides his cockhead along Trowa's cleft, trailing precome and lubricant.

He holds himself still for a moment. Closes his eyes and holds himself to Trowa, pressed to him; then, slowly, slowly, Quatre begins to press inside. Inarticulate guttural crooning, reassurance and supplication, they're both breathing in gasps and soft cries; and Trowa's sharpen, he pushes back; and Quatre's inside him, _inside_ him.

It's like a dream, but it's real. Hyperreal.

Trowa's tight around him, almost too tight to be perfect, and that's what makes it so perfect, so fucking perfect. The snug thrumming heat shivers through him, and he feels Trowa shivering hot too as he starts, as they start to move...

Gorgeously oversensitized and overstimulated, Quatre comes first. He stays behind Trowa, stroking him to completion.

After, Quatre drapes heavy against Trowa for a moment, just feeling Trowa beneath him. Slides off as he slips out soft, collapses beside Trowa. Stretches as he languidly twists onto his back, eyes closed, lips curved up and parted, trying to catch his breath even as he exhales sighs. His eyes flutter open as he turns his face to Trowa— 

"We've never done this before, have we."

Trowa's not looking at him. 

Quatre can't read Trowa's face. He needs Trowa's gaze.

Then Trowa looks, and his eyes are full, so full; too full...

"Oh Trowa, I." It's hard to keep meeting Trowa's eyes but Quatre has to. "I thought you remembered... I wouldn't have, if I'd known..." 

And he can't go on, not with words nor with his eyes; he lets his gaze drop.

Feels Trowa roll onto his back. Listens to Trowa's breath, ragged around the edges. 

Feels Trowa shift and he doesn't look, he doesn't want to see Trowa go this time. 

He touches the lingering warmth, the imprint of Trowa in his bed.

 

That night, Quatre comes awake: Trowa's sitting at the end of the bed. Quatre turns on the light, blinking and shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness. He means to ask how long Trowa's been here but instead he says, "I didn't think you'd come tonight." 

They just look at each other. Then Trowa unfolds his legs. Quatre's eyes follow him as he comes up the side of the bed, pulls back the covers and gets in, leaning over Quatre to turn out the light, and Quatre can't see Trowa anymore but he can feel him. He aches as Trowa's hands slip under his night shirt, arches as Trowa's thumb brushes his nipple and Quatre opens his mouth to sigh, and Trowa's tongue is in his mouth, licking the backs of his teeth, his hand is down Quatre's pants, touching his cock and Quatre's getting hard, and it would be so easy, his body's already surrendering—

But Quatre fights. Pulls himself back, his hand between them, pressing against Trowa's chest to hold him at arm's length. "You didn't want this," he says. "This wasn't. This isn't what you want."

He reaches to turn on the light again. Sits back, no longer touching Trowa at all. He's not looking at Trowa; he can feel Trowa looking at him. "I wanted it," Quatre says softly, slowly, painfully, "but you didn't." He closes his downcast eyes. "I guess I should have known this morning—no, I know I should have. I just, wanted you. I wanted it to be real." He bites down on his lip to kill the quaver. "I should have known but I didn't let myself." He takes a deep breath; thinks he might choke on it. "I'm sorry, Trowa."

He feels Trowa's hand on his face, Trowa tilting him to look and Quatre does, owes Trowa at least this—

And Trowa kisses him. Quatre makes a small sound in the back of his throat, tries to pull away. Trowa's cupping his face. "Quat," he says evenly, "this is what I want." Quatre tries to get up but Trowa pushes him down. Straddles him, holds him down. "This is what I want." He stretches out on top of Quatre, arches just enough to reach between them, pushing down their nightclothes, stroking Quatre and Quatre's helplessly hard, and he shuts his eyes. "This," Quatre feels heat, Trowa's fingers around his cock, Trowa's cock nudging his, "with you." Heavy heat, their cocks flush together as Trowa lowers his body again. "Please, Quat."

It's the first time Trowa's called him 'Quat' since before. "Quat," Trowa murmurs against his skin, rocking gently, rocking them together so softly. Quatre opens his eyes and looks into Trowa's, and Trowa calls him Quat again, like it's all he can say; calls him Quat like he has been all night, like he has before, _oh!_ —

Like he used to. Before.

Eyes open, Quatre kisses him; they kiss, their eyes are open, they're kissing.

Like they have before; yeah, like they do now.


End file.
